The Portsmouth Conundrum
by signofthree
Summary: John wakes up in a puddle of someone else's blood with a head injury and no memory of how he got there. Sherlock works to prove his innocence, but all evidence leads in an unsavory direction, and it is becoming harder and harder to make theories to fit facts. VERY minor spoilers for series 3.
1. Chapter 1

1.

There is a stickiness to this situation, and it's not remotely metaphorical.

In fact, that's the first thing John notices as he slowly drags himself back to consciousness from the end of the long, dark tunnel of pain in which he has been sleeping. The stickiness is in his hair, it's dripping down the side of his face and weaving in between his fingers, gluing them together until he can summon the energy to pry them apart. Judging from the stiffness in his arm, it's the first movement his body has attempted in a while.

There is a groan, and even though it sounds far away, he is certain that it came from him. That's the second thing he's aware of, then.

The third thing is pain.

Low and throbbing, the pain is too mixed up in John's semi-conscious body for him to know where it is coming from at first. There is a current of numbness underlying everything, even the pain, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. If it weren't for the stickiness and the accompanying metallic smell (fourth thing), John might think he was in the hospital, waking up from anaesthesia.

But this is no hospital. There is dust in the air, he can smell it even as his face contorts in pain and the groan swells. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He is not lying in a bed, hospital or otherwise. He is prone on a hard surface, one arm tucked under him, the other reaching out ahead of him. At last he is able to locate the source of the pain, for it has come rushing to a point on his left temple, where it has swelled as he drags himself closer to a tenuous state of wakefulness.

At last, John opens his eyes.

He is not in the hospital. That much he got correctly. He is lying in a bedroom-not his, but just as plain-with hardwood floors. That's as much as he can tell: It is dark and still. The air is thick with gunpowder and blood.

John's stomach jolts as he realizes what the metallic smell is. He wants to bolt up, but his body feels as though it's been recently fed through a washing machine; the most it will allow is for him to tenderly push himself into a sitting position, his hands slipping in the slick and sticky wetness on the floor.

His hands tremble as he probes the lump on his head, which has swelled to impressive proportions and is so tender he feels his arms go weak with protective adrenaline the moment he touches it. There is a cut above the lump, but does that account for the blood? Concussed, concussed, concussed. His mind chants it like a mantra, but he can't decide what type of significance to apply to the words. He just knows that he feels like he is about to throw up, and he desperately wants to avoid doing so.

"Shhhh-aaah."

He trails off in the middle of the word, as if his brain ceased communication with his mouth midway through speaking. He finds this vaguely annoying, presses his lips together for a long moment before trying again.

"Sheeeer-lock," he says. Then, clearer, "Sherlock."

Yes, that sounds right. Sherlock. It takes a moment to remember the significance of the name, but when he does, he knows for sure this has to have something to do with him. Panic swells-delayed, probably-when he realizes that he cannot remember what happened.

Automatically he presses his hands to his eyes, as if by doing so he can block out the smell of gunpowder and dust and blood.

John Watson, doctor, soldier, sometime-amateur detective...Yes, ok, that sounds good, but what day is it? More importantly, where is he?

He realizes he doesn't know the answer to either.

Something is buzzing at the base of his skull, like an alarm. John, you idiot, says the alarm. It doesn't bloody matter where you are. What matters is getting the hell out of here.

He gets shakily to his feet and sways dangerously as bile rises in his throat. Concussion concussion concussion...but nothing else seems to be injured, at least not badly. He is stiff and sore as hell, but the first step he takes produces no worse pain than if he had been exercising strenuously the day before. He slips through the blood that is slicking the floor until he hits the wall, then fumbles along it until he finds the switch and flicks the light on.

John stifles a gasp and a second round of bile rising in his throat.

The blood is everywhere. It is coating the floor and splattered on the bed. Droplets fleck the window, which looks out onto a dark night somewhere in London. The blood is coming from the head of a short, stout man who used to be bald before someone blasted the back of his skull off with a bullet. He is lying facedown on the floor a few feet from where John was. There is no question that he is dead. The gun responsible is lying some four feet to his left, near where John's hand was when he first awoke.

John now presses that hand to his mouth, then quickly withdraws it, gagging. It smells like blood and gunpowder.

"Sherlock!"

He knows as soon as he says it that Sherlock will not reply. Sherlock called him earlier, told him not to ring, as he'd be busy for a few days, and then hung up without further explanation.

He realizes that that's the last thing he remembers. He doesn't know how long it's been since then.

His hand goes to his pocket. His mobile is still there. He pulls it out, leaving sticky red marks on the screen as he turns it on. It still has half its charge, so he can't have been there more than half a day. He fumbles for the number, resisting the urge to simply dial 999 and then curl up into a ball in the corner.

"New Scotland Yard, how can I direct your call?"

The female voice is tinny and painful in his ear.

"I'm..." His voice is too hoarse. It sticks in his throat.

"Sir? Are you there, sir?"

John clears his throat and tries again.

"I...I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade."

As he says it, he remembers that he has Lestrade's mobile number and probably should have called that.

"What is this regarding, sir?"

"This is, erm, John Watson. Tell him there's a man dead. And tell him...I think I might have done it."


	2. Chapter 2

**This fanfiction is in no way intended to infringe upon the rights of the creators of the show and is being written purely to fill the time between episodes in a more productive way than tearing out my hair.**

**VERY minor spoilers for series 3. This fictional work takes place after Sherlock's return but several months before Mary and John's wedding.**

2.

There is nothing worse as a police officer than receiving a call that turns out to be about one of your friends, at least in Greg Lestrade's opinion. For most officers, it was something dreaded but rarely experienced. It has happened to Greg three times.

(No, to be fair it has happened more times than that, more times than he cares to try to count, but half the time when Sherlock has the police called on him it's because he's done something stupid in the course of solving a crime, something that is exasperating but necessary, and ultimately a little amusing. The other half, Greg is doing the calling himself.)

The first time, Greg had been fresh to the title of Detective Inspector, and he was still riding the high that came with the title. It was completely coincidental that he had been placed on the call, and he hadn't even realized that he was on his way to his sister in-law's house until he was halfway there. He had known what he would find before he even opened the door. Margaret and her husband had been having problems longer than Greg had known them, and though he'd long suspected physical abuse was involved his wife (now ex) would never let him get involved. When he walked into the kitchen and found Margaret on the linoleum with a halo of red framing her bashed-in skull, he simply walked out and handed the case to another officer.

While Margaret's death had been horrifying, and furthermore had been the start of the tension and distance between him and his wife (she couldn't think about all the murders he was around without thinking of her sister), it didn't compare to the second call, which came some years later. Traumatic as Margaret and her smashed skull were, they didn't compare to showing up at Bart's to respond to the report that Sherlock Holmes had jumped from the roof, leaving the dead body of James Moriarty above him. Nothing could compare to staring at the pool of blood on the sidewalk as junior officers roped the area off. And nothing-nothing-could compare to finding John Watson off to the side, looking pale and shell-shocked as he stared at the ground, saying over and over, "I couldn't stop him. I wasn't there to stop him."

Sherlock, of course, had come back, the shock had eventually worn off, and despite a rocky reunion, John and Sherlock had settled back into their old familiar routine of annoying the piss out of every officer on the force. They have navigated around the changes in their relationship, including John's new fiancee, and though the dynamic is different in oh-so-subtle ways, John seems to have moved past the period in his life during which Sherlock Holmes had been dead.

So has Lestrade, honestly, but he doesn't think he will ever forget the look on John's face that day.

Nor, he thinks as he arrives at the third call, will he forget the look on his face tonight.

John personally called Lestrade, so Lestrade finds it only fitting that he personally drive John-pale and shaking and covered in blood-to A&E from the crime scene. John Watson doesn't say a word when they get there except to point them in the direction of the dead man. Lestrade would normally attribute this to a lack of cooperation; with John he attributes it to the football-sized lump on his head and the fact that, as if it weren't obvious enough that he has a concussion, John vomits all over his shoes as soon as they are out in the open air.

So Lestrade leaves Donovan in charge while he takes John to the emergency, helps him inside, and then sits outside the treatment bay with his mobile phone.

Sherlock doesn't pick up. Git.

_Call me. Urgent._

_GL_

There is a minute's wait before Sherlock responds.

_Don't call, Lestrade, situation sensitive. Call John if urgent, his secretarial skills are adequate._

_SH_

Lestrade rolls his eyes, steals a glance at John-sitting up while the two officers who had accompanied him inside collect his clothes-and replies.

_Urgent re: John. Got himself in a bit of trouble._

_GL_

The second reply comes more quickly.

_What happened?_

_SH_

_Don't know all the details yet but he was involved in a murder tonight. He's a bit banged up but ok, at a&e with him now_.

_GL_

There is a longer pause this time. The little ellipses in the text box on Greg's phone tell him that Sherlock is typing for a full minute, but whatever he is planning on saying he must have deleted, because all he says is:

_Two hours._

_SH_

The two hours are gone now, and the folks at hospital are just finishing with John. He's given his permission to allow the nurses to update Lestrade periodically, so every once in a while one will squeeze between the officers flanking whatever door John is behind and murmur an update. So far he's had fluids and electrolytes replaced, a CT scan, and four stitches for what Lestrade is told is a nasty gash over a nasty bump, which has resulted in an even nastier concussion.

The last time he comes out, Lestrade asks the nurse to make sure they grab a toxicology report. It's standard procedure, especially considering what John said on the phone, but it makes Lestrade squirm thinking of treating John like a criminal.

Finally one of the officers-a copper Lestrade doesn't knowcomes up to Lestrade. He might not be familiar, but he seems to recognize that the situation is sensitive, because he speaks in a low, soft voice. They're nearly done, ready to release him into custody.

As Lestrade is nodding his understanding, Sherlock Holmes bursts into the waiting area, coat billowing out behind him like some sort of Bond villain.

Lestrade waves the officer off and stands, but before he can get a word off, Sherlock launches into it.

"Why haven't you been texting me?" he demands."Never mind, don't answer. I should have learned by now not to raise my expectations for feebler minds."

Lestrade exhales through his nose, steeling himself.

"I thought it would be easier to tell you in person."

"You _thought_? I find that very difficult to believe, considering-"

"Listen, Sherlock." Lestrade suddenly feels exhausted, and he knows sleep is a long way off. "Look, you can stand here and yell at me all you want, or we can skip it and I can tell you what happened. They're releasing him in a minute, I'd like to get through it before then. Besides, you were the one who told me not to call. What was so sensitive, anyhow?"

"I'm sensitive to the sound of your voice, Lestrade, that seemed adequate enough reason to refuse at the time. Now tell me what happened."

Lestrade gives him a look, but Sherlock apparently does not even have the patience to look contrite tonight.

"All right," says Lestrade. "We don't know everything yet, but a man's been shot-a Yarder, actually, if the man we found is the one the address is registered to. Copper by the name of Portsmouth, didn't know him, but the officers at the scene tell me he was a nice enough fellow."

Sherlock sighs dramatically. This is not the information he was asking for.

"Look, Sherlock, we don't know much yet. Donovan says everything looks like a cut-and-dry spur-of-the-moment argument-no forced entry, signs of a scuffle, all that-but we don't know what Watson was doing there yet, as he's been in no condition to say, and we don't know why Portsmouth was shot."

Donovan has been texting him periodically with updates.

"As usual, Lestrade, what you don't know vastly outweighs what you do."

"Yeah, and don't for a second think that doesn't irk me as badly as it does you."

"What happened to John? Why is he here?"

"Concussion," said Lestrade, gesturing to the door behind which John was being treated. "Donovan says he most likely got hit by a lamp which was found at the scene. He was the one who called it in. Woke up there, apparently, covered in the bloke's blood. He hasn't said much about it, we're waiting until he's patched up to get a statement."

Sherlock, who has been staring over Lestrade's shoulder at the closed door, snaps his attention back to focus on his face.

"Donovan is processing the scene?" he sneers. "I suppose you've pulled Anderson out of his den and put him on as well, seeing as you're clearly intent on ensuring incompetence in the handling. Please tell me you took photographs before you allowed them to rampage through the place unchecked."

"We're not idiots, Sherlock, of course we're getting photographs, but-"

"Send them to my mobile, I want to see them before I head over."

Lestrade holds up a hand.

"Hold it, Sherlock, that's not what I called you for," said Lestrade. He gives Sherlock a quick once-over. He's more jittery than usual, and he can't seem to keep his eyes from wandering all over the room, always coming to land on the door to the treatment bay. Much as he might try to hide it the worry is evident in his face. It's overshadowed, of course, by an apparent desire to get to the crime scene. Lestrade is almost reluctant to squash the desire, but he presses on. "Look, you can't be in on this one, mate."

Sherlock's head snaps down to look at Lestrade. He looks like he's been slapped.

"Look, John's been through a trauma, and whatever happened tonight he's going to need a friend-"

Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard it's a wonder they don't fall out of his head.

"Is _that_ why you called me, Lestrade? Good God, if John needs someone to hold his hand he's got Mary. If he wants someone to exonerate him, he's going to need me. Now, if you don't mind, _the photographs_."

Lestrade shakes his head. "You're too close to it, Sherlock, and we haven't been able to get in touch with Mary, probably the time difference-"

"There is no time difference between here and Bayswater."

It's Lestrade's turn to roll his eyes. "Mary's been in California visiting her aunt for _two weeks_, Sherlock, how did you not notice?"

Sherlock has the decency to look properly surprised. "That would explain why John's been so keen to visit lately."

"Yeah," says Lestrade, rolling his eyes once more. "Anyway, he's going to need a mate. And I never said anything about John needing to be exonerated; he's not been charged with anything."

"Not formally," said Sherlock, "but you've got two officers guarding his door, and one of them just told you that they were nearly ready to release him to custody, which doesn't sound like you're about to give him a lift home, does it? You're taking him in for questioning."

"We just need a statement."

"Please. If it was just a statement you could do it right here, but you're taking him to the Yard, why?"

Lestrade grits his teeth, defeated. He lowers his voice.

"All right," he concedes, "look. I don't like this any more than you do, but...John may have implicated himself in the shooting."

"What did he say?"

"Well, he was in a bad way when he called-"

"His exact words. Quickly, Lestrade, time is wasting."

Lestrade steels himself. "He said a man had been shot. And...he said he might have done it."

Sherlock whirls around and begins pacing.

"You're sure?" he said. "His exact words?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"_Idiot_," Sherlock hisses.

"Bit harsh, Sherlock."

"Well, he is!" But Sherlock doesn't sound angry. He is drumming his fingers on his elbow as he paces, and his voice is laced with worry. "Why would you implicate yourself in a crime you don't remember committing?"

"We don't know that he doesn't remember, like I said he hasn't told us-"

"Of course he doesn't remember, why else would he say he _might_ have done it? If that idiot weren't so obsessed with playing the part of the gentleman he would have kept his mouth shut until I arrived. And you can be assured that his obsession extends into the realm of crime. If he remembered shooting the man, he would have owned up to that without guessing. _Idiot_."

"Okay." Lestrade tries to keep his voice calm, because Sherlock is working himself up and he's seen the man smash a computer when he gets into a rage. Lestrade wishes he had John's talent for Sherlock-whispering. "Well, even if he did do it-and I'm not making any calls until all the evidence is in-well, this is John we're talking about. He must have had a good reason."

"Here's hoping," says a voice behind him.

Lestrade turns around and Sherlock stops pacing. John has emerged from the treatment bay, still flanked by the two officers and looking particularly small in a plain white t-shirt and scrub bottoms, both supplied by the hospital. His pale face is overshadowed by the thick gauze taped over his left eye, which has already developed an impressive bruise to go with the lump. He's been stripped of his things, including his wallet and mobile, but his hands are wrapped around a cup of water as if it's the only thing keeping him from drifting away like a half-deflated balloon. His wrists are cuffed together.

"I thought I told you not to cuff him," Lestrade says, not wanting to see the look on Sherlock's face. "He's not under arrest."

The young officers look abashed. "But sir, you said he told you-"

But Sherlock is already striding forward, a small silver key in his hand. He unlocks John's wrists with deft but gentle hands and tosses the cuffs to Lestrade.

"Where did you-?" Lestrade begins, but then he realizes that the inside pocket of his blazer is conspicuously empty and he throws up his hands in exasperation. "Damn it Sherlock, I could have you arrested for that! But I'm not _going to_," he adds when one of the officers steps forward, overzealous. "Calm down, you two. And leave Dr. Watson alone, he's going to cooperate. Right, John?"

John nods, but stops quickly, wincing. He rubs his wrists as he turns to Sherlock.

"Took you long enough," he says.

"And yet I've outpaced your fiancee once again. By several continents, by the look of things."

"Finally figured out that Mary's in America, have you?"

Sherlock snorts. "It was patently obvious."

"It ought to have been, I told you four times."

Lestrade clears his throat. He's relieved to see that John has visibly relaxed in Sherlock's presence, but the man still looks on the verge of tipping over, and their night is far from done. Not to mention that he's already broken procedure several times for his old friend. Donovan is probably having a fit over the fact that he hasn't been questioned yet.

"You lads ready then? Promise I'll make it quick as possible. Up for it, John?"

"Don't suppose I have much of a choice, do I?" John sighs and steps forward, straight-backed as ever. He sways a little, but Sherlock grips his elbow, the movement so subtle Lestrade might not have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it. Sherlock is glaring at Lestrade, but Greg doesn't care to interpret the look at the moment. Nodding to the other officers, Lestrade leads them out of the hospital and into the panda car waiting for them at the entrance.


End file.
